


drive wolves mad

by LizaPod



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fractured Fairy Tale, Freeform, Gen, M/M, and appreciates irony, and mixed cliches, sort of, stiles knows what he wants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-12
Updated: 2012-08-12
Packaged: 2017-11-11 23:22:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizaPod/pseuds/LizaPod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Red’s a good color on him. Brings out his eyes. Makes him feel stealthy even when he knows he’ll stand out like a beacon in the hills… god, he makes himself laugh. Red makes him feel strong, makes his skin look pale and his veins stand out. It’s a good look. Better than leather.</p>
            </blockquote>





	drive wolves mad

“Hey there little Red Riding Hood, I sure am lookin’ good, I’m everything that a big bad wolf could want…” he sings to himself. He grins at his reflection in the dim mirror. He may not be showing off fangs but he feels dangerous, feels sharp around the edges. 

His hood drags against his scalp when he pulls it up, pulls against the grain of a fresh buzzcut and sends shivers down the back of his neck. 

Red’s a good color on him. Brings out his eyes. Makes him feel stealthy even when he knows he’ll stand out like a beacon in the hills… god, he makes himself laugh. Red makes him feel strong, makes his skin look pale and his veins stand out. It’s a good look. Better than leather.

“What big eyes I have, t’kinna eyes that drive wolves mad,” he goes on, shoves his gloves in his backpack. Zips up his hoodie, hides his chest from the mirror’s reflection and the chill of the foggy fall night. Zips up his jeans, faded black and grubby with dirt from other nights spent in the woods.

The drainpipe is an old friend that barely makes a sound when he uses it as an escape route, but his dad is dead to the world in the back bedroom, drooling into his files with an empty glass in easy reach. He walks out the front door. He starts his baby, peels out into the night.

The woods are lovely, and dark, and deep, and he’s mixing his clichés. 

Only two miles to go before he sleeps, though, from where he leaves the Jeep safely stashed in a clearing. 

The woods are lovely, and dark, and deep, and as familiar as the ceiling of his bedroom and the back of the fridge and the standard-issue wallpaper on the monitor of his dad’s computer all put together, and he knows now how to slide his feet under the loam to avoid breaking a twig.

His backpack is an easy weight against the curve of his back.

The fog masks the clouds of his breath.

No moonlight can get through the heavy pall of mist.

It’s impossible to tell that it’s almost the full moon. 

Except it sings in his blood like Sam the Sham. It hums and snaps and croons through his veins.

“What full lips you have… mmmhmmmm…” 

His eyes light on the lights left on ahead and he grins again. The big bad wolf is up.

The stairs creak like an old man’s bones under the weight of anything bigger than a housecat. He slips up over the porch rail instead. He stops humming. 

His breath comes evenly and his hands are steady. A window is open. It’s just his size. 

I’m gonna keep my sheep suit on…

The bedroom is homely and bright and cheap. The wolf is everything a little big boy could want.

“It’s not safe for you to be here.” His prey is sprawled on the mattress. 

“What a big heart you have.” He bares his teeth. “The better to love me with.”

“You’re not making any sense.” The big bad wolf isn’t that bright. 

He drags down the zipper on his hoodie. The clickclickhiss of tiny teeth unlatching fills the room. The wolf’s eyes match the fabric.

“I’m everything that a big bad wolf could want.” He steps forward, his hands in claws at his sides. “I’m Little Red Riding Hood.” 

“You don’t want to be Little Red Riding Hood,” the wolf says. “That ends badly.”

Little Red Riding Hood gets eaten, he knows. 

Good. 

“For the wolf, yeah.” He steps forward again. His toes touch the mattress. “Unless you make Red a wolf too.”

“Stiles.” 

“Derek.”

“You shouldn’t be out in the woods alone.” Derek’s fingers reach for his ankle and pull back before touching. Stiles stomps on his fingers, grinds them to the floor with his heel. 

“I’m not out in the woods, am I? I’m at grandma’s house and I’m not alone.” He steps forward, onto the mattress. He drops to his knees with a thud, a thud that sends dust and fur and the smell of sweat and blood and Derek into the air. His hips hover over the big bad wolf’s vulnerable stomach. His skin is cold and his blood is hot. 

Derek clenches his crushed fingers at his side, growls. Stiles snarls back, all teeth, no fangs. He has no fangs. 

He wants them. 

He wants Derek. 

“You should see things my way. Go home.” Derek gives off heat that Stiles can feel through his jeans when he lowers himself down. Cheap gloves keep the feel of Derek’s skin from his hands, but Derek’s hands are bare against his belly and he can feel those just fine. 

“You wouldn’t send me out in the woods alone without some kind of protection. I might get eaten. There might be a hunter looking for wolves.” Stiles digs his fingers into the meat of his prey’s chest. He wishes for claws. 

“You might get eaten here.”

Stiles shoves his hips back, forward. “Maybe I want to get eaten here. Maybe,” he slides his hands up to Derek’s throat, grins at the way his eyes go redblueblackred, “maybe I want to eat you.”

“Little Red Riding Hood doesn’t eat the wolf.” Derek’s words make his voicebox vibrate under his hands. 

“In my version he does.” Stiles squeezes. “Give me what I want. What we both want.” 

“You might die.” 

“Everyone dies.” Derek’s nails grow sharp and harsh against the flesh of his waist. “Give me what I want.” 

“It’ll hurt.” 

“Life is pain. Give. Me. What. I. Want.” He snarls again, bares his teeth, squeezes Derek’s throat until his fingers hurt, until his grip illustrates his point perfectly to himself and to Derek.

Derek surges up, like a wave like a wolf like a lover. 

“Hey there, Little Red Riding Hood,” Derek growls against his steady pulse. 

“Aroo, motherfucker.”

Fangs tear into his flesh.


End file.
